


red

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 13:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: For the first time, Harry catches sight of his name on the man’s wrist, stained by red so dark it looks black. How fitting, he thinks, and then Voldemort flips them, one hand pressed against Harry’s neck, pinning him to the ground with the threat of pain, of death.To learn your soulmate's name, they have to die.In the forest, Harry and Voldemort wake up. They have each other's names.





	red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exarite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exarite/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [exarite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exarite/pseuds/exarite) in the [TomarryFlashExchanges](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomarryFlashExchanges) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> You only find out your soulmate when they die.
> 
> In the forest, Harry and Voldemort wake up. They have each other's names.

When Harry wakes, the first thing he feels is a searing heat against the skin of his wrist.

Normally, he’d set the pain aside, because there are much more important things to be worried about right now, but there’s something about this pain in particular that makes it impossible to ignore. So, figuring the Death Eaters will be too distracted by Bellatrix's wailing to pay close attention to his own supposedly dead body, Harry chances a look.

There, seared into the skin of his wrist, is a name written in sharp script.

_ Lord Voldemort. _

In his shock, he doesn’t think to stifle his gasp, but no one turns at the sound.

For a moment, he’s caught up in wondering why it doesn’t instead say _ Tom Riddle_. But then, he supposes it isn't important. What’s important is the fact that the name is there at all. 

He darts his gaze around the clearing, but no one is paying him any attention. In fact, they’re all huddled around Voldemort’s prone form where it lies in the grass. Harry watches, just for a moment, wondering absently how much of that concern is genuine and how much is performance for the benefit of the other Death Eaters.

Then, realization sinks in.

_ No one is paying him any attention. _

The edge of the clearing is only a short distance away.

He has no reason to stay, now. He’s died. The horcrux is gone. It _ must _be.

If he can get away unnoticed…

Holding his breath, Harry begins to creep backward. First with movements so small he may as well have not moved at all, but as he gets closer to the clearing’s edge, he gets bolder. With one last glance at the Death Eaters, Harry pushes himself up onto his knees, ready to get his feet under himself and bolt, now that the shadows licking at the clearing’s edge have started to cover him as well.

And then Voldemort sits up.

Harry thinks his heart must stop, half fear and half something else he doesn’t want to name flooding through him.

Bellatrix is crying out to her master, offering her help to bring him to his feet, but the man, the _ monster_, isn’t paying her any attention.

He’s looking at Harry.

He knows, Harry thinks hysterically, feeling lightheaded. 

He knows that _ Harry _ is his- 

He can’t see it from here, but he’s willing to bet that Voldemort has a matching burn across his wrist. On a normal day, the thought would be enough to send him reeling into a blinding panic. But today isn’t a normal day. 

He doesn’t have _ time_.

As Voldemort slowly, carefully, pushes himself to his feet, waving aside any offers of help, Harry can do nothing but sit there on his knees, his gaze still locked with deep, burning red. He feels mesmerized, and in this moment, all he wants to do is go to the other man, offering his wrist, his hand, his-

With a cut off gasp, Harry tears his gaze away.

The Death Eaters are looking at him, now. They’re waiting for orders, Harry realizes, but Voldemort isn’t giving any. He could stay and fight. Voldemort seems weaker as he rises to his full height once more, human frailty to be found where it never was before. But against these odds, he knows he can’t win.

His stolen wand is still tucked away with his cloak, and if he tries to draw it now, he’ll be struck down before he can cast a single spell.

So, he does the only thing he can; he stands, and he runs.

In the dark, it’s easy to get lost.

And he does.

  
  
The trees here are so old that they tower above him, blocking even the light of the stars. As he stumbles across their roots, breath coming in gasps, he clutches at his aching wrist. He hates it, desperately enough that he could cut it off if he were given a knife, but at the same time, there’s something in him that loves it. That _ craves _ it. 

Because it’s grounding, somehow. 

He feels... tethered.

Like he could let go, and there would always be someone there to catch him. But that’s the problem, Harry thinks. Because Voldemort is trying to _ catch him_.

In the distance, he hears shouting, far enough away that they must have lost his trail.

As Harry takes a moment to rest against a towering oak, he lets himself breathe and feel small amongst its roots, taking comfort in the way the cool, rough bark scratches at the palms of his hands. 

Around him, he hears the rustle of leaves, the sounds of creatures moving against the forest floor, and the murmuring of a brook, too far away to see.

And then he doesn’t.

The forest falls silent. Still. Like it’s holding its breath.

Harry, too, is holding his breath, and in the silence the beat of his pulse is almost painful. The rush of blood in his veins, too loud. 

He wonders if Voldemort can hear it.

Somewhere behind him, he hears the slide of fabric across the underbrush. 

Closer, now, bare feet against the ground.

And then his name.

“_Harry_.”

Voldemort’s voice is soft. Playful, almost. And suddenly Harry is brought back to the graveyard, to the way it felt to press his back against stone as Voldemort spoke to him. As Voldemort _taunted_ him.

His lungs are burning with the need to breathe, and he can barely think against the sound of his own bounding heart, beating violently in his chest.

“_I know you’re here, Harry_.”

Each time Voldemort says his name feels like another blow. 

“_You were so brave, before, to come and face me_.” 

Is the voice getting closer? 

“_Where has that bravery gone?” _

Or is his mind playing tricks on him?

He clutches at his stolen wand with a sweaty grip, and once more he wishes desperately that he had his own wand back. 

A twig snaps to his left.

So fast his neck aches with the motion, Harry turns his head to look.

There’s nothing there.

With a shuddering, silent breath, Harry closes his eyes. When he opens them again, a flash of white that doesn’t belong moves in the darkness, and his head snaps up to follow it.

Voldemort is standing there, as if he’s been there all along, and it’s as if the world has fallen away from him.

He feels calm, suddenly. Like nothing could touch him.

Voldemort strikes, and the illusion of safety is shattered, a rush of magic dragging him back down to earth.

Harry fights back because he has to. 

When he tries to remember the fight later, he can’t, the memory of all but the very end lost to the heady rush of breathless panic and adrenaline. 

Already tired, it doesn’t take long for Harry to make a mistake. A just barely dodged blasting curse sends him falling, and Voldemort catches him with a cruciatus as he hits the ground. He doesn’t know how long he stays under, too busy holding back a scream, refusing to give Voldemort the satisfaction of hearing it, to count the seconds. 

But by the time he’s released, he lies boneless on the forest floor, his wand lying somewhere else.

He stays there, panting for breath, as he does his best to recover and dreads another curse. 

But Voldemort only watches, his head tilted just so in curiosity, like a child seeing death for the first time and not quite understanding what it means.

He drifts closer, bare feet moving near silently against the ground. Once he’s close enough, Harry strikes, knowing that if he tries to run, he’d be caught.

Disarmed, Harry fights the only way he can. He’s a cornered animal, and he knows it. He lunges for Voldemort and catches him at the knee, sending his tall frame toppling to the ground. When Voldemort lifts his wand, Harry breaks it. He digs his nails into flesh, wishing they weren’t so blunt. Wishing they could draw blood. And when Voldemort, in the struggle, makes the mistake of putting his hand near Harry’s face, he bites. 

With a cut off shout, Voldemort tears his wrist away, and it comes away bloody. For the first time, Harry catches sight of his name on the man’s wrist, stained by red so dark it looks black. How fitting, he thinks, and then Voldemort flips them, one hand pressed against Harry’s neck, pinning him to the ground with the threat of pain, of death.

Harry lies there, gasping against the pressure as Voldemort arcs over him like a wave about to break.

He could die here, he thinks as Voldemort uses his free hand to grab at his own marked wrist and pulls, wrenching his arm into a painful angle. The man touches one finger to the script of his name, and Harry lets out a strangled groan as his body lights up at the touch. 

He could die here, and the worst part is, he thinks, he could die _ happy_.

It’s as if his heart has restarted, a new beat rising in his chest as he shudders at the reality of having Voldemort so close. At the weight of his frame anchoring Harry to the ground, the heat of him as he brackets Harry’s body with his own and holds one hand tight around his bare wrist and the other to his bared neck.

He meets Voldemort’s burning gaze, and it’s as if he’s never lived until now. 

The scent of damp earth and fresh blood pools in the back of his throat. 

And all he sees is _ red_.


End file.
